Nude

Ah, liberation-
from the knitted caste system
that has swathed my tan!

Nightingale In The Lobby

Strands of sable veil the face
of a nymph that dwells
within marbled walls.
Freshly picked cherries
kiss her lips;
unsatisfied,
she brushes some gloss.

Her nape, embraced
by the scent of magnolia,
with a hint of citrus
and a touch of vanilla.
With a barette resting
above her ear,
she's the bloom of the evening
the petals? Her skin.

The song is a lullabye
that cools caffeine,
powdering cigars
into ashes, unpuffed.
The smooth transition
from mi to sol:
her voice is a panflute,
the strings, her echo.